


Crook

by Cinnaboy (Skeltonstein)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Domestic, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I Tried, Junkrat | Jamison Fawkes is a Little Shit, M/M, Sick Fic, eyyyy, haha like (surfer voice) sick fic maaaan, roadrat - Freeform, truth right there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-11 23:52:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9044819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skeltonstein/pseuds/Cinnaboy
Summary: "Got a fever.” He folded the rag and tried lowering it over his forehead, but he pushed him off.“Nooo, that’s just sunburn.” Jamie closed his eyes. “And see these rosy cheeks? ’S the fire in me.” He waited for the aimless waving to stop. “I’m not crook at all.”Out of all the inconvenient, despicable, loathsome things about the world, there was nothing Junkrat hated more than getting sick. Roadhog comes home from a medicine run and makes him take care of himself.





	

**Author's Note:**

> my roadrat secret santa 2016 gift for @transboyvyvyan on tumblr!
> 
> usually i make a point to not include that much australian lingo in my junkers fics, because i’m so american i could never use them all correctly and make it sound normal, but i’ll make an exception for a pun. also, junkrat has reading glasses. my house now.
> 
> no beta we die like men

Just outside of the main Junkertown territories, nestled between a crater of a dried lakebed and the beginnings of a pitiful hill, rested a small garage. The two-story shutter doors had long been rusted shut, having no power to open them, and the ancient mural on the brick side had faded to a ghost of a curly-haired woman holding some relic daintily. Rounded gas pumps stuck out of the yellowed dirt like obelisks of an era that was old even before the turn of the wasteland. Their numbers ticked faintly with any strong breeze, counting up and down and back. Signs littered the area warning of a minefield and other deadly traps should an idiot wander too close. Most of them had faces with their tongues sticking out and abstract smiles doodled onto them. A tall neon sign on the roof hummed a staccato to the tune of “Domino’s Automotive Repairs & Mods.”

  
For miles around, the steady chugging roar of an overworked motorcycle echoed through the desert, a rising plume of dust trailing behind it. It stayed on the cracked, overworked road until it reached the first sign warning of danger, then veered off, making a wide arc around the garage and dipping into the dried lake. The tires didn’t take well to the cracked earth and spat chunks of the crust out as it started to drift. Steering into the slide, the rider held control and sped on his way to the back of the garage. He slowed as he approached a ring of wire fencing, hugging it until he reached a makeshift gate. Having no lock, but well hidden, it was easy to pull aside and replace as any other section of fence in the line.

  
Once inside, Roadhog stepped off his motorcycle and walked it to the building. Animals of all kinds wandered the land, and the last thing he wanted was to have to clean one off the chassis. The sun was low in the sky and, being the middle of June, it would disappear within the early hour. A giant old pig resting in the shade of the back steps lumbered to it’s feet and waddled to his side; he rubbed a hand over its soft head and scratched its chin.

  
“Nothin for ya, girl.” Slowly, he moved his motorcycle to the side between the porch and a thrumming clunker of a generator. He fished out a tarp and his bag from the empty sidecar and the pig moved her head over it, skeptical. She sniffed, huffed, and ducked out from under the tarp as it covered the ride. She followed him to the steps, keeping close to his side and nosing his hand. He kneeled down to the dish on the porch and let the pile of crabapples fall into it. The wooden porch nailed around the back door was obviously a later installment meant to combat the way the sand reclaimed the cracked concrete steps under it, as it did with all things. The wood could probably be repurposed for better, more practical projects, but the chairs and drink chest made it homey. The door creaked and swayed in the wind, so he made sure to shut it tightly behind him.

  
The dirt on his shoes stuck diligently to the soles, so he kicked them off as he made his way into the office across the building. It was by no means insulated well, but the warm air was already taking the chill out of his bones, and he was grateful for it. Inside the office, past the boarded up windows and door, and the ancient, reliable couch, and around the counter lined with various little medical supplies, he opened the fridge. With his pack on the counter, he unloaded what food, water, and sweets he had managed to scavenge and trade for. He prided himself on having a stocked kitchen and over the years he’s gotten crafty with his methods. Lastly, he pulled a bottle of pills from the bag and stowed it under the counter on his way out.

  
His eyes swept the floor, assessing the tables of parts, islands of somewhat neatly arranged groups. The garage was roomy, with a high ceiling and half disassembled cars and bikes held in little clusters like townships. A loft jutted out overhead from above the office and the stairs leading to it, clearly the same handiwork as the back porch, clung to their shared wall. Cabinets of tools lined the walls and worn tires piled high against the shutter doors, surrounding the large, cluttered workbench like castle walls. Hunched over the table, Jamie idly fiddled with the knobs of a ham radio. A radio station crackled from the other end, fading in and out until it came together into a recognizable pop song; his hand left the radio to pick up a thin charcoal pencil.

  
He pushed his way across the room, careful not to disturb the order, but brushed against enough to make his presence known; Jamie kept his head down, a hand on the back of his neck massaging in a slow rhythm. A thick blanket hung from his shoulders like a shawl, billowing over the stool and drowning his scrawny form. He stayed silent as he stepped up to the workbench, getting a look over his shoulder. With quick, precise motions, the charcoal started to take shape, individual parts raising out of the diagram for a unique kind of weapon. In the corner was a much less tactful drawing of the concept, a samurai sword on fire with it’s effectiveness made known through lots and lots of jagged lines. Perhaps some were meant to be lightening?

  
The pills rattled softly in the bottle when Roadhog held them up.

  
“Mmh.” Jamie pushed his nose further into his work.

  
“Supposed to be resting.”

  
“Done enough of that,” his voice cracked and he cleared his throat wetly.

  
“Oh?”

  
“Yuh-huh.” Roadhog wasn’t about to play this game today. He set the pills on the table and pulled on Jamie's shoulder to turn him around. “Slept the whole time you’re out. Just started workin.” Underneath the first drawing, a couple more pages were layered between it and the table. “Yup, just snug as a bug. Whole day.” Between the dark blanket and his fair hair, the redness of his cheeks and eyes stood out in neon lights. Trying to cover up, he rubbed the palm of his hand under his glasses into his eye and hopped down from the stool. The sudden twist left the blanket wrapped around his leg and prosthetic and he hopped once, gripping the fabric around his shoulders, before he lost his balance with a yelp.

  
Roadhog lunged for the back of the blanket and yanked reflexively up, succeeding in keeping Jamie from careening into the nearest pile of parts by hoisting him entirely off the ground. He followed through with a sweep of his other arm and settled for carrying him in a bridal-burrito fashion. Making sure to grab the bottle of pills beforehand, he turned from the bench.

  
Jamie was glaring at him. “Gone and made me a pig in a poke, did ya?” He bumped his head into Roadhog’s shoulder. “Made me into one of your own? You monster!” He went limp and hung like dead weight from his arms. Upside-down, the world spun and his mind swam, so he gently curled back up and squirmed, trying to unwrap himself from the inside out. “You’re lucky I’m missing a few parts, or I’d rip outta here faster than you can blink.” He hadn’t gained much ground with the squirming.

  
“Lucky me,” he nodded and started up the stairs. They were surprisingly silent as they reached the loft.

  
Roadhog dumped his charge onto the bed and turned back to the stairs. “Stay put.”

  
“Oh, just gonna leave me here?” Jamie rolled on his side and kept rolling, “Let me sweat it out? Or just die!”

  
“Stay!” He disappeared down the steps, and Jamie was left to stare.

  
Just like the rest of their home, there was space to spare in the loft and the amenities were somewhat worn. Bare lightbulbs were strung haphazardly from the ceiling, their different shades and colors creating a collage over the whole area. Natural light mixed in from the old-fashioned top-hinge windows, meant to ventilate the heat from the worst of the desert days. Lacking in the way of any traditional furniture, upended milk crates and cinderblocks held up planks of wood roped together, housing their odds and ends. Tucked into the corner and under a window, the bed was a box frame on the ground stacked on a much older one, covered in another’s worth in blankets and pillows.

  
A minute later, Roadhog reappeared from the stairs with his arms full and Jamie fixed him with a fed up look. He sat on the edge of the bed and set up on the milk crate of a nightstand the bottles of water, medicine, rags, and a bucket. With a few clicks and a rattle, he poured out a couple of pills and held them out in his palm.

  
Jamie stared. “You want me to eat ‘em outta your hand?”

  
Behind the mask, Roadhog’s eyes softened. “Ain’t you a pig now?”

  
“Hardy har,” he turned to the window and watched the wind pick up swirls of the dust. Everything told him he’d have to take his medicine at some point, but equally told him to be real damn stubborn about it. Don’t want to gain a reputation for being too easy, after all. He felt the broad, warm nose of Roadhog’s mask on his neck, and little oinking sounds tickled his ear. Without thinking, he snickered and screwed his eyes up. Fake protests were wrapped up in their laughter and Jamie squirmed to the far side of the bed.

  
He huffed, an indignant smile on his lips. “You let me out, I’ll take the damn pills.”

  
Roadhog hummed approval and set the pills down with the water bottle. Tugging on one end of the blanket, he started to unravel and untangle Jamie's gangly limbs. Once his legs were free, he had enough wiggle room with his arm to toss the blanket off in a lot of circular punching motions and went to work to undoing the straps for his leg. No sooner did he have it off and set aside did he have a palm of pills and a bottle of water waiting on him. Agreement or no, he screwed up his face at the round white pellets, it was going to be a pain getting those down.

  
“And what’re these, again?”

  
“Jamie.” Roadhog had a way of making his world stop, and it was with the tone he said his name.

  
“I—” his voice stuck, but he powered through it, “I got a right to be informed.”

  
“You think I’d hurt you?” Jamie's sour face dropped completely. It wasn’t often he asked questions like that with his mask still on. Then again, he thought, he’s had his hands full since he came home. He shoved the pills into his mouth and chased them with water like a shot. Satisfied, Roadhog took the water bottle and put it on the night stand while Jamie flopped back onto the pillows.

  
Mako pulled his mask off and tossed it to a pile of clothes across the loft. From the nightstand, he picked a rag and poured some water over it, then wrung it out over the bucket. With the back of his hand, he tested his own forehead, then on Jamie's; he was ridiculously warm.

  
“Got a fever.” He folded the rag and tried lowering it over his forehead, but he pushed him off.

  
“Nooo, that’s just sunburn.” Jamie closed his eyes. “And see these rosy cheeks? ’S the fire in me.” He waited for the aimless waving to stop. “I’m not crook at all.” Mako gingerly lifted the glasses off his face and put them on top of a book on the nightstand. He laid the rag over his forehead and stood. “Now where you running to?” He walked around to the other end of the bed and shrugged out of his jacket one arm at a time. It was tossed with the mask and he crawled onto his side of the bed, back against the wall

  
“Oh. Yeah, good choice,” he patted his arm and scooted close to him. By comparison, Mako was just the right amount of cool to cling to and Jamie pulled him in close. In turn, he propped an arm underneath his back and held him.

  
The light pouring in from the window changed from bright oranges to dull pinks and eventually faded altogether. From time to time, Jamie's head would nod on his shoulder and he would breathe in sharply, stubbornly fighting sleep. He groaned in exasperation and buried his face in Mako's chest.

“Ain’t you worried about catching what I got?” His voice was a muffled croak.

  
Mako pretended to think this over, but there wasn’t really any question. With his free hand, he picked up the towel and wiped back some of the hair off Jamie's forehead with it. He looked up from his chest and searched his face for an answer. He slowly shook his head; he didn’t think there was any real chance he’d get sick. Even if he did, they had enough supplies now to last them through it, and these moments were worth it.

  
“Just sleep,” he pulled one of the lighter blankets out from under him and threw it over their legs. Jamie turned to the other side of the bed and ran a hand down the spines of a stack of books on the nightstand; he plucked a worn paperback with a raised title from around the middle. Several paperbacks tumbled to the floor with his glasses, but he just set the novel down on Mako's stomach and went about undoing the straps for his prosthetic arm. Sleep had made his fingers heavy, but after a few fumbling tries, it came loose, and he dropped it over the side of the bed with his leg.

  
“Here,” he picked the book up and set it back down in the same spot. Mako reached up and pulled his pony tail undone, shook his hair loose, and got comfortable. “A classic,” Jamie nodded sagely, “can’t say no to it. Put me right to sleep.”

  
The cracked, yellowed cover was a gaudy looking double-digit generation volume of Pride and Prejudice. He shook his head and flipped to the most recently bookmarked page, right in the middle of the arrival at Kent, which was peppered with his ancient penned notes and underlinings. If it would finally keep him from sneaking off, working himself to death on projects he wasn’t lucid enough to follow through on, then it would have to be this. Mako pulled him up for a quick kiss to his warm cheek, adjusted the blankets, and began to read.

**Author's Note:**

> merry shitscram, everybody! feel free to leave a comment or kudos if you're up to it. if you want to talk headcanons with me or anything else, i'm @junkjunker on tumblr; i won't bite!


End file.
